


Calamity

by henchgirl



Category: Justified
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Space, M/M, Space Cowboys - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-26 23:07:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6259762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/henchgirl/pseuds/henchgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Raylan's coming home to Harlan again. In space. Boyd's up to something. In space. Hijinx ensue. In space.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Calamity

**Author's Note:**

> Have Justified IN SPACE. You're welcome.
> 
> Many many thanks to my dear friend Ylva, for whom this was written as part of her final project before becoming an awesome publisher, and without whom it wouldn't be even half as polished as it is now. I ramble. Ylva fixes. <3

Raylan deliberately did not look out the window as the shuttle went in for landing over the colony. He already knew exactly what he would see if he did; hills and hollers and ramshackle buildings, forever stuck in terraform phase two, things held together with sticky tape and prayers, rust and dust, piss and synthehol. He'd sworn on his own gravestone – the one his Daddy got and raised outside their house because it was a good deal and it'd surely be needed eventually – that he would never ever come back here.

He'd tried reasoning with Dan when he'd gotten the orders.

”Nothing I can do, Raylan. You can't stay here. It's fucked up, but that's the way it is. I'm sorry to see you go, but it's either that or you resign. I know it's a shit post. Just...keep your head down and maybe in a few rotations things will have settled and you can transfer back out.” 

Well. He knew a bullshit line when he was fed one, and he ought to have seen this coming. Making vows never did seem to work out well for him in the end. He'd thought swearing to protect and serve would be different, apparently it wasn't. It was just about the only vow he'd never broken, though, so he was reluctant to let it go, and now here he was.

Harlan. A mining colony in the backwaters of U.T. controlled space, rich in mineral and poor in most everything else. 

The shuttle settled on the cracked plascrete of the landing strip with a shudder of badly aligned thrusters. Raylan took a long moment to breathe, before abruptly grabbing his go bag and making his way out into the thin, copper flavored night. Sometime in the years he'd been away, he'd forgotten how big the sky was here, how the stars burned in that sky like pellets from a plasma rifle. 

He caught the cleanest looking transport from where a gaggle of them were idling outside the spaceport, leaving the rest to spit and complain about being cheated out of a fare. He'd not yet thought to arrange accommodations – maybe subconsciously hoping for a last minute reprieve – but the station would surely have a break room where he could crash until morning. 

The white shield of the United Terra Wardens glowed faintly overhead when the transport let him off, right in front of one of the standard issue prefab command post cubes the people upstairs liked to drop into places like this, instead of building something proper. He slung his bag up over his shoulder – so light for something filled with everything he'd wanted to keep – passed the automated security scan, and headed up to the second floor bull pen. It was empty, emergency lights only; the desks were fewer and set further apart than he was used to. Nobody working late. Well, good. He wasn't really in the mood for a meet-and-greet anyway.

”About time you got here.”

Art Mullen, his new captain, stepped out of the shadows in his office. 

They'd worked together before, on Raylan's second posting; worked well together, even. Raylan knew Art didn't have many years left before retirement, but he looked much the same as he had the last time they'd spoken. Heavier, for sure, a few more wrinkles maybe, but he'd already been bald as a bullet long before Raylan ever met him. 

”You been waiting up for me, Art?”

”'S good to see you too, Raylan!” There was that same jovial mixture of sarcasm and sincerity Raylan remembered, the one that made it so hard to tell if he was yanking your chain or not. ”You want a drink?”

As he slouched down on Art's office sofa with a passably decent glass of synthetic bourbon, he thought maybe things wouldn't be so completely unbearable. Not so long as he stayed in the office, anyway.

He managed to hold on to that thought until about noon the following day. After catching up with Art he'd slept a few hours on that selfsame sofa, and slept better than he'd expected. The wan light of Harlan's cold-season sun dragged its way through the narrow window to wake him, and he blinked slowly under the weight of it. Not a dream, then. He was still here. 

And he'd best make himself decent, before the office filled up with strangers who, he was sure, already knew him by reputation.

The restrooms were stainless grey and smelled of disinfectant. Raylan shrugged out of his sleep-rumpled shirt and washed down in cold water, hoping it would help jolt him out of the lingering space lag. 

Spitting pale green into the sink, he made a face at the copper dust that already clung to him like a second skin. He hadn't even been back a day. 

Well, there was nothing for it, except sucking it all up. He ran a still wet hand through the mess of his hair and pulled a fresh uniform shirt out of his bag. There. Some stimulants on top of that, and he'd be as ready as he'd ever be.

Heads turned when he sauntered back through the automatic double doors of the bull pen, but Art waved him into his office before anyone could approach.

Two other Wardens were already in there, yin and yang in standard black fatigues. The woman, lips pursed and curly hair commanded into a severe bun, looked him deliberately up and down with an expression he recognized from his Aunt Helen; tougher than she looked and without much patience for bullshit, this one, if he was any judge. She'd have to be, on this posting – Harlan was still backwards enough that more than a few locals still embraced xenophobia as gospel. The man – kid, really - was blond and blue-eyed and almost too pretty, but he stood at parade rest as though that was his default position, and that even, faraway stare noticed every detail. 

”Raylan, these fine people are Rachel Brooks and Tim Gutterson. You'll be working together.” 

”Nice to meet you,” Raylan said, smile on automatic, because smiling is what you do when you use that phrase, whether you mean it or not. Gutterson gave a curt nod in his general direction.

”We've heard a lot about you.” Rachel's voice was clear and precise, giving no hints as to her opinion on those things she'd heard. 

”I bet.” So that was how it was going to be. If they expected him to bend over backwards to prove himself to them, they'd be sorely disappointed. He knew what he was about, and they'd either see that for themselves, or they wouldn't. 

”So!” Art broke the awkward silence and rubbed his hands together. ”Now that introductions have been made, let's get to work. You're a local boy, Raylan, are you familiar with a fella goes by the name of Boyd Crowder?”

Well, shit.

 

*

 

An abandoned transport had been found in a vacant lot, with a thermite burn right next to it and traces of spaceout all over the cargo hold. The transport was registered to a Dickie Bennett, who was of course nowhere to be found, but the vague body-shape burned into the cracked green dirt looked to have been quite a bit taller than the Dickie Bennett Raylan remembered. Sucker bet said sticky Dickie had run off to hide behind his Mama. Who the burn had been was anyone's guess, at this point. But it was common knowledge that the spaceout trade on Harlan belonged to the Crowders, and that Boyd Crowder in particular liked setting things on fire. It was all circumstantial, though, which was why Art had lit up bright like a thermite burn himself when Raylan had admitted that yes, he did know Boyd. 

”Fantastic! Take Rachel and Tim and go down to Crowder's and poke him with a stick, see what pops out,” he'd said. ”You're good at that. We get him on this, maybe we can get him on all this other shit too.”

Boyd fucking Crowder. Familiar was one word for what he was. Boyd, with an accent thick and slow as high grade engine lubricant; just like the one Raylan had tried so hard to drop, the one that came back when he was very drunk or very tired. Boyd, whose Daddy was just like Raylan's; a thug with his fingers in every pot, mean while he was sober and just plain nasty when he was not. Boyd, who'd once solemnly sworn - just like Raylan – that he would get the hell off this rock. So yeah, Raylan was familiar with Boyd Crowder. And he was familiar with this dusty street, and this whorehouse pretending to be a bar, with all its scratches and dings, bad air filters and hose-down floor; and that pretty girl pulling beers, too. Little Ava, who wasn't so little any more. 

”Why, Raylan Givens! As I live and breathe! Looking good, son! I always did say black was your color!” And there was Boyd, with that smile cracking his entire face open and those wild eyes, the crowd melting away before him like they hadn't for the Warden uniform. 

”Hello, Boyd.” Raylan could feel a helpless grin tugging at the corner of his mouth and quickly forced it away. Boyd had always been … a bit too much, for most folks. Too much energy within that skin, too much mockery in that candor, with those big words and bigger gestures, either intimidating or pissing people off with that sharp, clever tongue of his. 

”Should we do us a drink, for old time's sake? Ava! A drink for our boy Raylan, here!”

Raylan accepted the glass and let the stubborn little grin loose, though he could feel the disapproving eyes of his fellow Wardens bore into his back. Let them. This was a game of Harlan dare, and he could still recall how to play it, even though he'd done his level best to forget. He saluted Ava with the drink and tossed it back. The shock and burn of real grain alcohol, hard to come by and worth its weight in latinum, made him struggle for a moment to keep a straight face. 

”'S very generous of you, Boyd,” he said, when he'd managed it. Boyd was laughing at him, but it was a weirdly soft thing, like he was letting Raylan get away with something.

”It's the very least I can do, to welcome home the prodigal son!” Boyd swallowed his own mouthful of moonshine like it was water, never taking his eyes off Raylan. ”Now, Raylan, though I would very much like to believe your only business in this here establishment is the reforging of childhood bonds, the presence of your grim-faced associates tells me that sadly it ain't so. What can I do for you?” 

”Well, Boyd,” Raylan began, toying with the empty glass, ”y'see, someone set a fire early this morning. Poor Dickie Bennett lost his ride, too. Not that far from here actually. We figured, maybe you might know something about it.”

”Ah. It's possible I might have been told something to that effect, yes. But you know how things work here - rumors spreading like, well, wildfire. If you'll pardon the pun. I can hardly be expected to keep up with all of them!” 

”Mmm.” Raylan made sure to inject a fair amount of disbelief into the sound. ”So you're saying you have no information pertinent to our investigation?”

”Why, yes, Raylan, at this precise moment in time that appears to be exactly what I am saying.” Raylan had seen an antique picture of a saint once, and the way Boyd looked right then he might as well have modeled for it, with all the injured innocence he was projecting. ”Have you got anywhere to stay yet? You know my door is always open. And Ava's got these rooms for rent upstairs… ”

”Well, that's mighty kind of you, Boyd, but current circumstances being what they are, I think that might be a bit awkward, don't you?”

”I am sorry you feel that way, Raylan, but I cannot fault a man for following his beliefs, misguided though they may be,” Boyd sighed. ”I do hope you won't be a stranger, though. You have been sorely missed, son!”

Raylan raised a skeptical eyebrow and swept a pointed gaze around the room. Nothing but tension and listening ears, hands too obviously kept away from badly concealed weapons. 

”Oh, I remember that face!” Boyds delight was more than a bit disconcerting. ”Should I take its appearance to mean, Warden Givens, that you are of the opinion I am laying it on a bit too thick?”

”Well, if you have to ask… Anyway, if you happen to … overhear … any further information about the events of this morning, the Wardens would appreciate your assistance.”

”Of course, Raylan! If I hear anything, you'll know as soon as I do.”

”The Wardens thank you for your cooperation.” Raylan straightened from his slouch against the bar and mimed tipping an invisible hat at Ava. She smirked and blew him a kiss. He absentmindedly caught it and put it in his pocket as he turned to leave. 

”Well that was cozy,” Gutterson shot at him, as soon as the door swished shut behind them, ”fraternizing with a known criminal.”

”Waste of time.” He wasn't entirely sure if Rachel was referring to Boyd, himself or the situation in general. ”We got nothing. We should have just brought him in for questioning.” 

”Do either of you honestly think someone like Boyd Crowder can't bullshit his way out of any formal enquiry we, at present, can legally subject him to? We're never going to trip him up without solid proof. We want him, we're going to have to catch him in the act. And we do have something: he did it.”

”Well, sorry, we're going to need more than gut feeling. I've got that myself.” 

Raylan sighed. ”And you've been on Harlan how long …? Until I had that little chat with him in there I suspected he'd done it. Now I know he did it, and he knows I know he did it. So let's get to working on why he did it, and who he did it to, or that circumstantial knowledge ain't gonna get us anywhere.”

”Just like that, huh?” Rachel was looking him over again, but different this time, speculative.

”Well, yeah, just like that.”

He politely pretended he didn't notice the silent argument his colleagues engaged in all the way back to the office. Art wasn't quite so gracious, taking one look at the three of them and throwing his hands up in exasperation.

”Didn't I tell you to be nice, Raylan?”

”No Art, actually, you didn't.”

”That was remiss of me. Be nice, Raylan. What have you got?” 

”Nothing admissible. But I'm working on it.”

Raylan commandeered one of the empty desks and dragged it into the far corner, just below the air filters. It should theoretically be the most dust free place in the room, with the added benefit of letting him keep his back to a wall. The holo flashed on smoothly with a swipe of his hand, without the annoying flicker his last one had. He kind of missed it. There were hundreds of files and notes connected to the Crowders, most of them tagged 'circumstantial' or 'conjecture'. 

”Lab's analyzing what was left of the thermite ash, hopefully they'll find something to tell us who went extra crispy. My credits are on Dickie Bennett,” Gutterson reported, looking up from his own station. 

”Nah, it's not Dickie.”

”Why, because Boyd Crowder left you a secret message in that 'shine saying it wasn't so?”

”No,” Raylan explained, with a lot more patience than he thought he had, ”because no Crowder would be so obvious about offing a Bennett, as much as they'd maybe like to, without overwhelming provocation. It'd lead to open war, and war is bad for business.”

”Did you ever consider things might have changed while you were gone?”

”As long as Mags Bennett is alive, they haven't changed that much.”

 

*

 

Art glared him into submission when he started making noises about maybe taking advantage of the office sofa for another night, so he packed up and left with the rest of the drones; wandering aimlessly until he found a bunkhouse just off one of the better run-down backstreets. When the landlord didn't look shifty at the sight of a Warden uniform, Raylan deemed it good enough. He handed over his ID and waited while the lock to room number 5 was reset to him.

The room looked almost exactly like he'd thought it would. Plascrete in neutral colors with most of the furniture molded into the walls; no sharp corners and no entirely straight lines. The architect would no doubt claim the design was exciting and organic, but Raylan knew that was just another way to say easy to clean. No matter what happened in here, you could just spray the place with disinfectant, hose it off, and have the next guest in ten minutes later. 

He didn't bother to unpack, just shoved his bag into one of the open shelves and flopped face down onto the bed. The sleeping alcove felt like a cave, and when he turned on the bed light and rolled over he discovered some idiot had decided to paint it copper green. Like there wasn't enough of that color on Harlan to last several lifetimes. At least he wouldn't be spending much waking time here.

He scowled at the offending green for a while, then twisted to bury his head in the pillow, then scowled some more. It was late, and he'd been tired when he got here but apparently sleep wasn't going to happen. A quick change into civilian clothes, then he was back out on the streets. 

He set off into the maze with a vague idea of maybe finding an all-night eatery, but when he turned a corner and suddenly found himself right outside the Crowder bar he thought he should have realized that was where he was heading all along. It was getting rowdy in there by now, silhouettes weaving like marsh grass behind the cloudy windows. A burst of laughter spilled out into the street after one of the rent boys – the boy spat angrily in the dust and disappeared around the corner.

Going in would probably be a very bad idea. 

A fog of humanity enveloped him on the other side of the door. The heat and smell of too many bodies having too much to drink hit him hard. Dozens of shouted conversations and rambling monologues, words jostling each other for space. He pushed his way through the confusion and up to the bar. 

”Raylan! Hi, sugar!” Ava's smile was as wide as Boyd's, but decidedly less calculating. Bright. ”I wasn't expecting to see you again so soon! Boyd's not here.” She leaned over the counter to accept a kiss on the cheek. 

”I'm not here to see Boyd. Just want to see a drink.”

”Mmhmm.” She smirked at him, unconvinced. ”Bourbon do you?”

”Thanks.” He watched her as she poured it, and absentmindedly wondered how she kept that long blonde hair from turning green in the wash water. Maybe he'd ask Gutterson about it, he had to have the same problem. Should be good for shits and giggles. 

Ava handed him his glass with another beaming smile and then turned to the next thirsty customer. Alone in the crowd, Raylan zoned out the Warden way – letting his senses drift through the information around him until they caught on something interesting. There was a drug deal going down three tables over. The tired-looking working girl in the corner deftly slipped something into her john's glass when he wasn't looking, probably performance reducers, for which Raylan didn't blame her one bit. The man by the door wasn't entirely human: those impossibly blue eyes gave him away, and for some no doubt nefarious reason he was just pretending to be drunk. 

And then Ava's voice, soft and hurried, from the other end of the bar.

”Devil! Are the boys on their way already? Tell Boyd he'll have to go round back. We've got company.”

Raylan casually finished his drink, and sauntered towards the exit. The fake drunk staggered heavily into him, but Raylan shoved him away none too gently, not interested in playing whatever his game was. 

'Round back' turned out to be a dead end alley complete with stinking dumpsters, and another very bad idea for an off-duty Warden who already had one black mark hanging over his head for going off the rails. Knowing that didn't stop Raylan from taking cover in the shadows behind one of the dumpsters, just in time before a beat-up transport cleared the corner.

Boyd and a handful of thugs climbed out of the transport, looking tired and dirty and covered in verdigris, as if they'd done what passed for an honest day's work on Harlan. Boyd stretched until his back cracked and dragged a hand through his crazy hair, sending a cloud of shimmery dust flying.

”Help me get it secured upstairs,” he ordered,”then the rest of the night is yours, boys.” 

It was strange to hear him command instead of cajole, but his heavies obeyed him without comment. Raylan edged forward, trying to get a better look at whatever 'it' was. Spaceout? Weapons? Whatever it was, it was heavy. It took two of the men to lift it out of the cargo hold, but when it finally came into Raylan's line of sight, he was more puzzled than ever. The thing was egg shaped, about the size of a head, and wrapped carefully in someone's shirt. Boyd swiped his hand over the lock screen and held the back door open, with a sharp admonition to get a move on. A bit of slapstick hilarity ensued when the two hulks tried, failed, and tried again to enter at the same time without letting go of the thing. Raylan rolled his eyes.  Real brains trust you've got here, Boyd. At last they managed to get it inside. The rest of the goon squad milled about aimlessly a bit longer, before it seemed their hive mind processed the sudden lack of direction and pointed them unerringly at the bar. Big surprise there. Raylan waited until they were all gone, then returned to the bunkhouse with just one thought running through his mind. Boyd, what are you up to?

 

*

 

Two days later, Raylan woke to a weird unsettled feeling. In his dreams, he and Boyd Crowder had been fighting, or maybe dancing, in a vast and silent chamber; circling each other around and around the mysterious thing, and every time one of them got close enough to almost touch it, the dream started over again. 

He barely made it to work before 'acceptably late, sit down and look busy' turned into 'scathing scolding in Art's office'. 

”So glad you could join us, Raylan!” Art was looking strangely pleased about something, which was odd, since they'd hit nothing but dead ends with the thermite burn so far. The lab rats had found traces of DNA in the ashes, but it was so degraded they couldn't even tell if it was human. ”There was quite a bit of excitement last night!”

”Is that so?”

”Mmm.” Art's eyes sparkled with unholy glee, and even Gutterson was smirking in the background. ”At the Crowder's. Seems someone broke in, and then set fire to the place. Such a shame. We'll have to investigate, of course.”

” … of course,” Raylan agreed. Here was a legitimate opportunity to look for Boyd Crowder's dirty laundry (probably literally, unless all of it had burned) without the need for a warrant. Of course everybody was happy about it, hoping they'd find tangible links in the rubble to solve at least some of their frustrating open cases. Raylan knew that feeling, had chased it his entire career, so why wasn't he feeling it now?

The others were too caught up in the excitement to notice his distraction. 

Boyd was waiting outside the bar when their transport pulled up, staring at the destruction with an unreadable expression. He was covered in soot, making his eyes look uncomfortably bright against the black. Raylan wondered why nobody had made him go to the med clinic yet. Where was Ava?

”Mr. Crowder!” Art hurried forward like an affable undertaker. 

”Warden Captain Mullen. Deputies. Raylan.” Boyd coughed. There was still thick acrid smoke hanging in the air, but the firefighting drones were just circling lazily overhead. Their handlers were packing up the rest of their gear, meaning the building was deemed safe enough to leave. 

All the windows had been blown out, and the burn pattern around them showed where the flames had licked the walls like a lollipop, but other than that the bar looked reasonably intact. The wonders of plascrete.

”We have some questions for you, Mr. Crowder, if you don't mind.”

”By all means, go right ahead.” Boyd's responses were mechanical, following his script but with no artistry in the execution. ”I have to say I am amazed that my tax money covers such a multitudinous force of officers to come out and investigate this debacle.”

”Slow day at the office,” Art quipped.

”I'm sure.” 

”We won't take up much of your time, Mr. Crowder … now, the automatic alarm was sent to the fire department at 4.23. Were you present at that time?”

Boyd glanced down at his blackened hands with a grimace. ”Yes. I was sleeping, seeing as how it was the middle of the night.”

”Anybody else here?”

”Ava … Ava Crowder, and Devil, that's, uh, Derek Lennox to you official types. Some of the boys, I don't know exactly.”

”They sleeping too?”

Boyd didn't roll his eyes at the implication, but Raylan could see he wanted to. ”As far as I know. They don't have a curfew and I don't make a habit of tucking my employees in at night, Captain.” 

”And you didn't hear or see anything?”

”No. On account of I was sleeping.”

”Was anything taken?”

Boyd's pause was just a second too long. ”Well, I'm sure you understand that under the circumstances it's a bit hard to tell, but I don't think so, no. I'm sure whatever poor misguided soul has done this awful thing simply meant to … shake us all up a bit.”

”Uh-huh. And you have no idea who that individual might be?”

”If I did, I would surely tell you, Captain.” 

” … Right. Well, we'll just take a look around, see if we can't find any clues to lead us to the perpetrator.” Art didn't quite skip towards the house, but it was a near thing.

Raylan stayed where he was, about as far from Boyd as he'd been when the dream reset. Maybe the dream was responsible for him being so off his game, the dream-feeling lingering, sticky like resin. 

”Ava told me you came by the other night.”

”I did.”

”Why?” Boyd looked like he really wanted to know the answer, or maybe more like he had an answer and hoped it would turn out to be the right one. 

”I … I don't know.” Whatever Boyd had hoped for, that wasn't it. His eyes shuttered, and he turned back to the mess of his bar and the black clad vultures picking it over; vultures wearing the same uniform as Raylan.

”Oh.”

”Where's Ava?” 

Boyd tensed, swallowing. ”Med clinic. She got … something fell on her, and I … she got burned.” 

Raylan's heart sunk like lead. ”Is she going to be alright?”

A muscle in Boyd's jaw twitched, and when he replied his voice was toxic. ”Well I don't know, Raylan. Your fellow government officials have made it quite clear to me that I am not to leave the premises while you … investigate.”

”Boyd, I-”

”Fuck off, Raylan.”

He bit down on the knee-jerk response. Ava, hurt and alone? To hell with that. Boyd was a tightly packed, burning bundle of resentment next to him, so Raylan squared his shoulders and went to brave the dragon. 

”Art! We gotta let Crowder go to the med clinic. He's breathing weird. Department could be sued for refusing him medical treatment if something goes wrong.” He kept his expression clear. He'd learned a long time ago that the only way to get something past Art Mullen was telling the truth. Well. A truth.

Art squinted suspiciously at him. ”You sure he ain't faking it?”

Raylan scoffed. ”Course I ain't sure. But do you wanna risk it? I know him right, that'd come back to bite us on the ass sooner or later.”

”Aw, hell! You know I hate it when you're right. Please, stop,” Art grouched. ”Fine. Fine! Let him go. I suppose he'll leave a trail of sooty black footprints for us to follow, anyway.”

Boyd had found a seat on a crate outside the house across the street, and was projecting stay away so strongly Raylan half expected to bounce right off his personal space bubble. He didn't look up, just kept wiping his hands on a rag that did nothing except move the dirt around. 

”Hey,” Raylan said, coming to a stop right in front of him. ”You're free to go now. Give my best to Ava.” 

Boyd didn't say thanks, but he did look up, something softening in him. He reached out to circle Raylan's wrist with those long artist's fingers, used the grip to pull himself up to standing, then squeezed once. 

Raylan watched him go, absentmindedly opening and closing his fist as if it was cramping. The black smear on his skin felt like a brand.

 

*

 

They found seven of Boyd's men in the rubble, but nothing like the thing Raylan had seen – meaning either Boyd had moved it, or whoever set the fire took it. Raylan's gut said door number two. Sadly, his gut feeling alone wouldn't fly with Art, not as long as his justification was 'I saw Boyd Crowder with a thing and now the thing ain't there'.

Rachel's theory was insurance fraud, which was prosaic and plausible enough, if you didn't know Boyd Crowder. He wouldn't. 

Well, he probably would, but not with someone he actually gave a damn about in the house. 

They'd been rummaging through the wreckage for hours, but wherever Boyd kept his skeletons, apparently it wasn't the bar. By the time Art let them call it a day, they were all tired and dirty. Raylan waved away the offer of a lift home from Gutterson, who had become Tim somewhere around the third burned body, and tried to convince himself he wasn't going to the med clinic. 

The clinic was another soulless government prefab cube, cold, scrupulously clean, and impersonal. The nurse manning the reception sneered at him for the grievous offense of dirtying her floors without being close to death, and Raylan slapped his Warden badge down on the counter in front of her with perhaps a bit more force than was strictly required. He really didn't like hospitals.

”I'm here to see Ava Crowder.” The nurse pursed her lips, and he could see her reaching for a standardized brush off, so he smoothly added ”We need to document her injuries for our ongoing investigation.”

”Ward two. Upstairs.” 

He gave her the most insincere smile in his arsenal. ”Much obliged.” 

Ava had been given a room to herself. Boyd wasn't there, but the chair shoved haphazardly away from the side of the bed said he had been. 

She was sleeping the sleep of the heavily sedated, and the bandages were just slightly whiter than the pale of her skin. Half her face and her left arm were covered in them, and Raylan hurt to think of what lay beneath. Growing up, he'd wished Ava was his sister. No, that wasn't right. She'd been his sister, in everything but blood, his and Boyd's. The bright spot, the one thing that came easy. She'd teased and laughed and softened their edges so they didn't cut each other to the bone.

And now Boyd had brought this on her with whatever game he was playing this time; and Raylan couldn't help but think that maybe he could've … he could've … what? Rode in on his white horse and saved her? Ava would have smacked him. She wasn't anybody's damsel in distress. 

”You'll be fine, Ava,” he said, reassuring himself more than her. ”Just fine.”

 

*

 

Raylan was stepping out of the shower when the door chimed, startling him. He wasn't expecting anybody – in fact, he hadn't yet told anyone where he was staying. He quickly wrapped a towel around his hips and grabbed his weapon from where he'd dumped it on the table. Better safe than sorry. Flipping the safety off, he kept it ready but out of sight as he slowly let the door slide open.

”Hello, Raylan.” Somewhere between the med clinic and here, Boyd had cleaned up too, buttoned into a shirt that wasn't his, like it was a suit of armor. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets and he was rocking on the balls of his feet like a little kid. 

”Boyd. What are you doing here?” Raylan didn't move away from his careful slouch in the doorway, made no move to let Boyd in.

”Well, Raylan,” Boyd said, with the air of one imparting an important secret,”I don't know if you recall, but my home burned up this morning.”

”I do recall, as a matter of fact. Doesn't explain what you're doing here.” It was too easy, falling back into their old banter – too easy to feel like nothing had changed and he still knew this man better than himself. 

”I-” Boyd's voice cracked, brittle like something flash-frozen in dry ice. ”We almost died, Raylan. Someone almost killed us. My boys are dead. Ava almost died.” 

Raylan sighed, and shouldered himself away from the wall. Bad ideas kept piling up. He seemed incapable of resisting them. ”You'd better come in, then.”

Doing this - whatever this turned out to be - naked was not going to happen. Waving Boyd towards a seat, Raylan ducked into the bathroom to put some clothes on, which had the added bonus of giving him a moment alone to get his shit together. It had been a very long time since he'd been alone with Boyd Crowder, and, well, it had been different, back then. He hesitated a moment longer, then secured his gun and tucked it into his loose sleep pants. 

When he returned, Boyd looked up from his contemplation of the floor and seemed to rally, desperately grasping for something like his usual humor. 

”Shame. I was enjoying the view.”

Raylan rolled his eyes and leaned back against the table. ”Sure you were. Why are you here?”

”As I told you, Raylan, for the moment I am homeless and I thought that perhaps I might impose upon an old friend to-”

”Boyd. Why aren't you with Ava?”

” … Visiting hours are over.” Raylan was calling that bullshit. 

”Boyd.” He let the silence stretch, expectant, until Boyd stood and shoved the chair away in one explosive motion. 

”Because despite what you may think of me, I do have a conscience and I feel guilty! Satisfied?”

”Not really. Are you confessing to setting the fire?”

The anger vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, and now he just looked thin and worn out. ”Don't pretend you're stupid, Raylan, it doesn't suit you.”

”So what, then? Elucidate.”

”That's a big word. I'm impressed you know what it means.” 

”Mmm. You know us Wardens are even taught to read these days.”

Boyd laughed tiredly, despite himself. ”Now you're just showing off.” He righted the chair and sat down again, curling in on himself with his elbows on his knees and his face hidden behind the lace of his fingers. 

”Elucidate … You 'member how your Aunt Helen used to read us them old fairytales, when we were kids, them scary ones with all the blood?” 

”Yeah. 'Course I do. You had nightmares about that one with the cannibal witch for months. What's that got to do with anything?”

”Thank you kindly for reminding me of that, Raylan. Here is my point: I've tried, but I cannot recall one single tale in which the knight in shining armor rides to the rescue of the villain. No, the villain always dies, or gets his just deserts.” 

”This ain't a fairytale, Boyd. And I ain't no damn knight.”

”I can't help but notice you ain't disputing my villainy. Anyway, that's just how the story goes. Everybody knows that. We all have our parts to play, Raylan. And I am hoping you will play yours with your usual flair.” 

Raylan had had enough. ”For fucks sake, shut up, Boyd! Would it literally kill you to be straight with me, for once in your damn life? Why did you even come here if- You can't just waltz in here and drop useless hint after useless hint like a damned Arcturian oracle! This ain't a game, and it ain't just about you anymore, remember? If you care about Ava at all, you'll damn well tell me who's after you and what the hell this has to do with that egg thing!”

Boyd froze, then searched his face with wide eyes. ”How did you-?”

”Never mind that,” Raylan spat. ”Do the math, Boyd. Ava's in the hospital. So's your boy Devil. The rest of your crew is toast, literally. Right now, I'm the only option you have.” 

”I know. You're right, I- you're right. I just never thought you'd be an option at all.”

”So why did you come here, then?” His anger had calmed, given way to curiosity. Seemed it was still almost impossible to stay mad at the man.

”I suppose … I suppose I just didn't want to be alone, Raylan. It's like you said – you're the only one.” There was a strange intensity in Boyd's words, and they hung in the air heavy with meaning Raylan wasn't ready to deal with. Instead he took down a good bottle from the shelf above the table and poured them each a drink. 

”Tell me.”

Boyd took a deep breath. ”Alright, Raylan. The egg thing? It's a Seeder pod.”

Raylan choked on his mouthful of synthehol. ”A Seeder pod? Where the hell did you get a Seeder pod? What the hell are you doing with a Seeder pod?”

”They found it down in the Bennett mine, Raylan. Buried deep. They made a new cut. Didn't expect to break through into a Seeder cache. That's how I found out about it. You know Dickie can't keep his mouth shut even if you pay him to. He waffled on to one of my girls about this huge cavern they found, despite the scanner showing nothing but rock in that direction.” Boyd leaned forward, eyes burning. ”The egg is the activator. The rest of it is still down there.”

A Seeder pod. Shit. The Seeders were myths – the ancient civilization who'd given rise to all the rest. The closest thing to gods anyone had ever found proof of, the origin of life. They'd Seeded dead space, then sat back and watched their experiments wake up and grow. Created life and destroyed it, all according to their own ineffable master plan. Nobody knew what they'd been looking for or where they'd gone, but their artifacts were scattered across the known universe, familiar shapes appearing over and over. The pyramid. The infinity symbol. The egg. 

The last Seeder pod to go off had pulled an entire system of planets into the resulting black hole. 

Raylan rubbed at his temples, where a headache was industriously setting up shop. ”You … tampered with a Seeder pod.”

”Yes, Raylan, I did,” Boyd agreed mildly. ”I'm glad you're following me so far. Would you have preferred me to leave our fragile existence in the hands of sticky Dickie and his brothers?” 

Raylan suspected Boyd's intentions had been a bit less pure than he made them sound. ”Please tell me we didn't find the activator in the bar because you stashed it somewhere else,” Raylan said, despite knowing better. 

”I wish I could, Raylan. I wish I could.” 

”The Bennetts?”

”No. Even Dickie wouldn't be stupid enough to …” He broke off, clenching his jaw. Raylan knew that expression, felt it on his own face every time he thought too long on Ava and those bandages. ” … anyway, if he had, he'd have left a trail of accelerant for you to follow all the way home to his Mama. No - my girl wasn't the only one Dickie ran his mouth to. There's dixies on Harlan, Raylan.”

Dixies. Wonderful. Raylan exhaled very slowly. ”Is there any more shit you wanna dump on me tonight?”

”I think that's more than enough, don't you agree?” 

Yes. Yes, Raylan did. ”Alright.” He stood, and busied himself with putting away the bottle and glasses. “Let's get some sleep.”

Boyd was staring at him as if he'd gone insane.

”Uh, Raylan … ” 

”What? I ain't gonna throw you out in the street in the middle of the night, and we ain't in any shape to deal with this bullshit right now. But you keep to your damn side of the bed.”

 

*

 

Of course Boyd ignored that instruction. When Raylan had finally managed to fall asleep they had been lying uncomfortably still like two parallel laser beams, as far away from each other as they could possibly get. When he woke up, Boyd was tangled around him like a spider web, breathing softly against the side of his neck.

The weight of him was familiar, comfortable, and Raylan figured he must have just resigned himself to bad ideas. What the hell. There was plenty of time to freak out later, when Boyd woke too. The longer he slept, the longer it'd be quiet, and the longer Raylan would have to come up with some way out of this mess.

He couldn't tell Art that dixies had burned down the bar to get at a Seeder activator. Unauthorized possession of Seeder technology was a capital offense. Failure to report a find of Seeder technology was also an offense, and even if they didn't kill you for that one, you'd probably wish they did before they let you out again. The courts didn't mess around with potential threats of universal doom. Whatever Boyd and he had done to hurt each other in the past and probably would do to hurt each other again, a betrayal like that would always be one size too big. 

Dixies. Hell. He'd been to Dix once, chasing a fugitive. He'd barely made it out alive, and had hoped to never have to see one of them again. 

They looked mostly human; blended in easily enough and could interbreed without problems – not that many humans would want to, despite their almost artificial good looks. Too blue eyes flashed in his memory – the not-drunk in the bar. He ought to have known. 

The dixies were a race of sociopaths, and if they had a moral compass, it was spinning so fast you couldn't see where it pointed. They ran their planet like a crime syndicate, and Raylan didn't want to know what they'd do if they got their hands on a Seeder pod. 

He was distracted from that cheery thought by Boyd shifting, pressing even closer. Was that …? 

Boyd sighed, and now his lips pressed against the rhythm of Raylan's pulse, impossible to ignore. Raylan felt his focus shift and narrow to that one small point of skin-to-skin contact, his body tingling. Bad ideas. So many bad ideas. His arm tightened around Boyd without his say-so. Traitor. 

”Mmmmph.” Boyd shifted again, climbing out of sleep now, and Raylan wasn't sure if it was himself or Boyd he tried to provide an out for by closing his eyes and letting his breaths become deep and even, his body heavy and relaxed. 

”Raylan?” Boyd mumbled, sounding more than half asleep still. ”Raylan … ” 

And then Boyd kissed him, and it felt like falling into a continuum shift. It was exactly like he remembered it, that sudden burning want and desperation, without any of the tacky disappointment that usually stuck to things when you had them again, after time and memory had turned them into ideals.

Raylan gasped, and rolled until Boyd was beneath him, pliable for once and irresistibly warm. He shuddered as their hips aligned and pushed frantically against each other, and it would be enough, he could feel it would be enough, so close, like they really were seventeen, and then Boyd moaned, high and desperate, and everything came to a stop.

They both froze, the sound shoving them out of the moment. Boyd's eyes were black holes in his face, holding Raylan in their gravity well, but then he blinked, and they broke apart so quickly Raylan didn't consciously remember moving.

Boyd cleared his throat, wiped his hands on his pants. ”I'm just gonna … ” he waved vaguely in the direction of the bathroom, and Raylan nodded dumbly. When he was alone, he let himself bury his head in his hands, just for a minute. Bad ideas. He was the fucking king of them.

Boyd post-bathroom break was all business, back to his old self. Apparently they were pretending nothing had happened. Raylan told himself he was perfectly fine with that. 

 

*

 

The only way Raylan could see to get himself, Boyd, and Ava out of this relatively intact, started with getting the activator back. So, option one and only, steal the trigger of an ancient weapon of potential mass destruction out from under a dixie thug, technically becoming a traitor to United Terra while doing so, without raising the suspicions of his rightly paranoid boss. No tall order or anything. The question now was, where was the thing?

Harlan was a small place, insular and convoluted, and there were only so many places for a foreigner to go without attracting too much attention, only so many who'd deal with a dixie at all. The Crowders and the Bennetts were out, too much to lose for all of them. That left pretty much one person. 

Boyd had obviously come to the same conclusion.

”You been to see your Daddy yet?”

The house was smaller than he remembered it, first-gen prefab, rusty as hell. Right outside was his Mama's grave, like some sick lawn ornament, and there was his own, just waiting for a date. Arlo met them on the stairs, brandishing an old-fashioned pellet rifle. 

Looked like maybe his Daddy didn't want to wait any more. 

”Dixies, Arlo. Really?” The man might be half of his gene pool, but that water was full of crap and he didn't have to swim in it. ”That's low, even for you.”

”They're paying me a whole lot more than you ever been worth to me, boy!” Same belligerent bluster as always, but Arlo Givens had grown old. His hair had gone white and he was holding that gun like it was too heavy for him. 

”Yeah? You actually seen any of that money yet?”

”None of your business! What do you want?”

”What do you think I want? Where are they?”

”And why the hell should I tell you that?”

”Well, Arlo … being charged with failing to report a Seeder find, that's gonna cost you more years than you got left, I reckon.” 

”You'd turn your own Daddy in to the damned Wardens?” He turned to Boyd, as if he'd only now noticed him. ”Can you believe that, son? My own flesh and blood!”

Oh, classic. Raylan smiled, sharp as shrapnel. ”They're paying me a whole lot more than you ever been worth to me.”

Arlo turned red and choked on fury, jerkily raising his rifle, but Raylan was faster. His aim never wavered as he stared his father down. 

”Bad idea, Arlo. C'mon now. We were just having a friendly conversation. Where are the dixies?”

”The mine,” Arlo spat, even more hostile in defeat,”he's in the damn mine. Now get the hell off my property.” 

 

*

 

The mine. Of course. It was so very obviously the last place you'd look.

Raylan hated the mine. To keep his mind off exactly how much, he ran his conversation with Arlo through his head again, stuck on the word 'he'. Was it just the one Dixie from the bar, then? That was strange. They usually traveled in packs. 

Boyd had been quiet since they left Arlo's place, coldly focused, checking and re-checking the plasma weapon Raylan could be court-martialed for even letting him touch. 

They left the transport in a dusty holler, marsh grass hiding it from at least a cursory look. They'd have to go the rest of the way on foot. Little clouds of verdigris rose around them as they set out across the badlands, towards the abandoned side passage Boyd said would get them to the main cut. The things they weren't talking about hung over them like wet cloth. 

Much too soon for Raylan's liking, they arrived. The entrance was almost perfectly round, aimed at them like the barrel of a gun. Despite himself, he shivered. Without looking, Boyd reached out and grabbed him around the wrist like he'd done outside the bar, gently pulling him into the darkness. 

They followed the dim light-strip set into the floor, turned and turned again into tunnels that looked exactly alike. Boyd didn't hesitate, following some mysterious miners' signs Raylan had never bothered to learn. They could hear the echoes of mining machinery, but it was distant and distorted. Mags had pulled her remaining workers to the other side of the mountain. Soon the sounds disappeared completely, and then the only things to keep his mind off the tons and tons of rock above him was that thin strip of light and Boyd's warm fingers tight around his arm.

They turned one last corner, and then he was pulled to a stop. 

The cavern stretched out before them, lit by a strangely fickle and wavering light, and it was vast; so big that the ceiling and walls were nothing more than ideas hidden in the shadows. In the middle of the floor lay the pod, a flawless oval glowing softly gold. Raylan shifted his grip on the gun and felt Boyd do the same at his side. 

The pod played tricks on his sense of perspective, that perfect shape against the darkness, and he found himself re-evaluating the size of it again and again as they neared, until it towered impossibly over them. He looked up at it in awe. 

A sound broke the spell, a toneless humming that filled the still air in a way it shouldn't. Then the dixie came slowly around the curve of the pod, trailing his hand against its surface. He didn't even appear to notice them. 

Raylan kept his gun at the ready and cautiously stepped after him. 

On the opposite side of the pod something broke the even shine of gold. An oval niche cradled a smaller egg, blinking slowly blue in the exact same shade as the dixie's eyes. 

That couldn't be good. 

The dixie sighed, gazing rapturously at the egg, petting it like a sleeping child.

A quick glance at Boyd told Raylan he wasn't alone in noticing how the dixie's eyes pulsed in time with the activator. Shit. That was definitely not good. How tightly was he linked to that thing? Would taking him out set it off? 

Raylan felt Boyd's hand quickly squeeze his wrist again, and took a deep breath. Alright. Slowly, Boyd started edging away from him, disappearing in the flickering shadows. 

The dixie gave the activator one last lingering caress, then started sinuously swaying around the pod again, rubbing up against it like one of Boyd's working girls. Raylan kept his eyes and his gun steady, ready to provide a distraction if necessary. He felt Boyd's silent movements the same way he felt it when someone was staring at him in a crowd. Closer now. Close. Almost there.

The Wardens had a training exercise – the Tueller drill. It taught you to recognize the last chance to shoot. If you had a gun and the attacker had a melee weapon, a charging attacker would always reach you before you could shoot if the distance between you was less than 20 feet.

The moment Boyd put his hands on the activator, the dixie stiffened so sharply Raylan thought he would snap his own spine, and his eyes burned like the hottest part of a flame. He roared like some kind of primeval animal, pulled a blade out of a hidden sheath and charged straight for Boyd's unprotected back. 

Just one more bad idea. Smoothly, Raylan stepped in between Boyd and the dixie, raised his gun and fired, somehow managing to twist out of the way fractions of a second before the wicked-looking shiv would have skewered him. Momentum kept the dixie stumbling a few steps forward, neon eyes widening in shocked outrage, until his brain caught up with the fact that suddenly he didn't have a heart any more. Then he spilled over like a sack of grain, leaving Raylan to stare down at the blade sticking out of his gut. 

It didn't even really hurt, just felt like someone had sucker punched him and knocked all the air out. A wash of liquid metal filled his mouth. Why did everything on this fucking planet have to be infused with copper? He turned to ask Boyd if he knew, but suddenly his legs weren't working so well, and he dropped the gun and thought maybe he should sit, and then, like magic, Boyd was there, easing him down on the ground with shaking hands.

”Oh, fuck, oh Raylan...no, no, no, no...why? Why would you do that?” Boyd was scared. Boyd was never scared. That must mean it was bad, then. There was something … something … 

”Boyd, you...you listen, okay? Boyd, don't...”

”Shhh, Raylan, I got you. I got you.” Boyd had pulled his shirt off, and was pushing it hard against the wound. Now it hurt, but there was something more important. All this fucking rock and stone above him, never again, never.

”I don't want to go there, okay? Don't put me in there. You gotta...you gotta make sure they don't put me in there.”

”Don't be talking like that, now, darling. Shhh.”

”You have to promise, Boyd. Promise! I'd rather you burn me, I can't...I don't...”

”I promise to blow up that fucking grave marker as soon as we both get out of here, that's what I promise, Raylan! Now shh. Let me figure this out.”

He thought maybe Boyd kissed him again, and that was a nice thing, it was, but he was so very tired now and maybe they could just- 

 

*

 

There was a bright white light. Raylan knew it wasn't the afterlife because it smelled like a hospital, and as soon as his vision cleared he gave himself a mental clap on the back for being right. He was laid out on bleach white sheets, IV-lines running into both his arms, and there was an awkward tightness in his left side, which experience told him meant he would be hurting like hell if they took him off the good drugs.

And in the chair next to the bed, Boyd was sleeping, propped in a position that had to be killing his neck. Raylan grinned.

So. Not dead. Wasn't that something? He giggled; then quickly looked around to see if anybody needed to be put down for witnessing that, and got stuck in Boyd's eyes. Boyd, who was smirking at him, which Raylan thought was most unfair and probably illegal. 

”You, my friend, are flying higher than a solar raft.”

Raylan thought Boyd should stop taking advantage of his impaired state of mind. Not that it had happened yet, exactly, but knowing Boyd, it was probably going to. Then he remembered something fantastic.

”You were wrong, Boyd!”

For some reason, that only made Boyd look more amused. ”Was I, now?”

”You said the villain never gets the heroic rescue. I saved your ass, son! That means I own it now.”

Boyd grinned. ”I guess it does. But then I saved yours, so I suppose that means we own each other's asses.”

”Damn straight.” He was suddenly tired again, a yawn surprising him out of nowhere, but there was still one more thing that needed to be settled.

”You know I'm going to get you for the thermite burn.”

”Whatever you say, Raylan.” Boyd rolled his eyes, but his smile was fond. 

”It ain't ever easy, with you.”

”Would you want it to be?” Boyd’s expression hadn’t changed, but Raylan could tell the question was sincere. 

He laughed. ”No.”


End file.
